A Buddhist monk named Han Shan got tired of life in the monastery and moved off to the wilderness. He wrote verses expressing his thoughts about life on rocks and trees, which were collected and assembled in a text called Cold Mountain.
The clear water sparkles like crystal,
you can see through it easily, right to the bottom.
My mind is free from every thought,
nothing in the myriad realms can move it.
Since it cannot be wantonly roused,
forever and forever it will stay unchanged.
When you have learned to know in this way,
you’ll know there is no inside or out.
Yes, there are stingy people,
but I’m not one of the stingy kind.
The robe I wear is flimsy? The better to dance in.
Wine gone? It went with a toast and a song.
Just so you keep your belly full-
never let those two legs go weary.
When the weeds are poking through your skull,
that’s the day you’ll have regrets!
Today I sat before the cliff,
sat a long time till mists had cleared.
A single thread, the clear stream runs cold;
a thousand yards the green peaks lift their heads.
White clouds – the morning light is still.
Moonrise – the lamp of night drifts upward.
Body free from dust and stain,
what cares could trouble my mind?
Cold cliffs, more beautiful the deeper you enter –
yet no one travels this road.
White clouds idle about the tall crags;
on the green peak a single monkey wails.
What other companions do I need?
I grow old doing as I please.
Though face and form alter with the years,
I hold fast to the pearl of the mind.
Cold Mountain is full of weird sights;
people who try to climb it always get scared.
When the moon shines, the water glints and sparkles;
when the wind blows, the grasses rustle and sigh.
Snowflakes make blossoms for the bare plum,
clouds in place of leaves for the naked trees.
At a touch of rain, the whole mountain shimmers
but only in good weather can you make the climb.
Story on story of wonderful hills and streams,
their blue-green haze locked in clouds!
Mists brush my thin cap with moisture,
dew wets my coat of plaited straw.
On my feet I wear pilgrim’s sandals,
my hand holds a stick of old rattan.
Though I look down again on the dusty world,
what is that land of dreams to me?
My mind is like the autumn moon
shining clean and clear in the green pool.
No, that’s not a good comparison.
Tell me, how shall I explain?
On Cold Mountain lives a naked insect,
its body is white and its head is black.
In its arm it carries a couple of books,
one “The Way” and the other “The Power.”
At home it doesn’t bother with kettle or stove,
on a journey it takes along no clothes,
but always it carries the sword of True Wisdom
to cut down the thieves of senseless desire.